Jo Nesbo - The Redeemer

Her long, red nails scurried across the keyboard like frightened cockroaches. Imitation camels in wintry Norway. Why not? She had seen pictures of camels in Afghanistan, and her boyfriend had written that it could be just as cold there as here.

'Will you be paying by cash or credit card, sir?'

'Cash.'

She pushed the registration form and a pen over the counter to him and asked to see his passport.

'No need,' he answered. 'I'll pay now.'

He spoke English almost like a Brit, but there was something about the way he articulated consonants that made her think of Eastern Europe.

'I still have to see your passport, sir. International regulations.'

He nodded in acknowledgement, passed her a smooth thousand-kroner note and his passport. Republika Hrvatska? Probably one of the new countries in the East. She gave him his change, put the note in the cash box and reminded herself to check it against the light when the hotel guest had gone. She endeavoured to maintain a certain style, although she had to concede that for the moment she was working at one of the city's less sophisticated hotels. And this particular guest did not look like a swindler, more like a… well, what did he look like in fact? She gave him the plastic card and the spiel about floor, lift, breakfast and checkout times.

'Will there be anything else, sir?' she warbled, confident that her English and service attitude were too good for this hotel. Before very long she would move to somewhere better. Or – if that was not possible – trim her approach.

He cleared his throat and asked where the nearest telephone booth was.

She explained that he could ring from his room, but he shook his head.

She had to think. The mobile phone had in practice meant that most phone boxes in Oslo had been removed, but she thought there was still one close by, in Jernbanetorget, the square outside the station. Although it was only a hundred metres away, she took out a little map, marked it and gave him directions. As they did in the Radisson and Choice hotels. Peering up to see whether he had understood, she was confused for a moment, without quite knowing why.

'It's us against the rest of the world, Halvorsen!'

Harry shouted his regular morning greeting as he burst into their shared office.

'Two messages,' Halvorsen said. 'You've got to report to the new POB's office. And a woman rang asking for you. Stunning voice.'

'Oh?' Harry slung his coat in the direction of the hatstand. It landed on the floor.

'Wow,' Halvorsen exclaimed without thinking. 'At last you've got over it, haven't you?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'You're chucking clothes at the hatstand again. And saying, "It's us against the rest of the world!" You haven't done either since Rakel dumped-'

Halvorsen shut up as he saw his colleague's warning expression.

'What did the lady want?'

'To pass on a message. Her name is…' Halvorsen searched through the yellow Post-its in front of him. '… Martine Eckhoff.'

'Don't know her.'

'Works at the Lighthouse.'

'Aha!'

'She said she'd been making enquiries. And that no one had heard anything about Per Holmen having any debts.'

'Did she now? Mm. Perhaps I ought to ring and check if there was anything else.'

'Oh? OK. Fine.'

'Alright? Why are you looking so cheated?' Harry bent down for his coat, but instead of hanging it up, he put it on. 'Do you know what, Junior? I have to go out again.'

'But the POB-'

'-will have to wait.'

The gate to the container terminal was open, but there was a sign on the fence prohibiting access and directing vehicles to the car park outside. Harry scratched his bad leg, glanced at the long, open expanse between the containers and drove in. The watchman's office was a low building much like a Moelven workman's shed that had been extended at regular intervals over the last thirty years. Which was not that far from the truth. Harry parked in front of the entrance and covered the remaining metres at a quick walk.

The watchman leaned back in his chair, silent, his hands behind his head, chewing on a matchstick, while Harry explained why he was there. And what had happened the night before.

The matchstick was the only thing moving in the watchman's face, but Harry thought he detected the hint of a grin as he told him about the altercation with the dog.

'Black Metzner,' the watchman said. 'The cousin of the Rhodesian ridgeback. Lucky to get it imported. Great guard dog. And quiet, too.'

'I noticed.'

The matchstick jumped in amusement. 'The Metzner is a hunter, so it sneaks up. Doesn't want to frighten the prey.'

'Are you saying the animal intended to… er, eat me?'

'Depends what you mean by eat.'

The watchman did not go into any details, just stared at Harry with a blank expression. The interwoven hands framed the whole of his head, and Harry was thinking that either he had unusually big hands or an unusually small head.

'So you didn't see or hear anyone at the time we are assuming Per Holmen was shot?'

'Was shot?'

'Shot himself. Anything?'

'Guard stays indoors in the winter. And the Metzner is quiet, as I said.'

'Isn't that impractical? That it doesn't raise an alarm, I mean?'

The watchman shrugged. 'It gets the job done. And we don't have to go out.'

'It didn't catch Per Holmen when he slipped in.'

'It's a big area.'

'But later?'

'The body, you mean? Bah. That was frozen, wasn't it? And the Metzner's not so keen on dead things. It likes fresh meat.'

Harry shuddered. 'In the police report it says you'd never seen Holmen down here before.'

'That's right enough.'

'I've just been to see his mother and she lent me this family photo.'

Harry put the picture on the watchman's desk. 'Could you have a look and swear to me that you have never seen this person before?'

The watchman lowered his gaze. Rolled the matchstick to the corner of his mouth to answer, then paused. The hands moved from behind his head and he picked up the photo. Studied it at length.

'I made a mistake. I have seen him. He was here in the summer. It wasn't so easy to recognise the… what was in the container.'

'I can appreciate that.'

When Harry stood in the doorway to leave a few minutes later, he opened the door a crack at first and checked. The watchman grinned.

'It's locked up during the day. And anyway, a Metzner's teeth are narrow. The wound heals fast. I've been thinking about buying a Kentucky terrier. Jagged teeth. Bite chunks out of you. You were lucky, Inspector.'

'Well,' Harry said, 'you'd better warn Fido that a lady is on her way and she'll give him something else to bite.'

'What?' Halvorsen asked, carefully manoeuvring the car past a snowplough.

'Something soft,' Harry said. 'Kind of clay. Afterwards Beate and her team will put the clay in plaster, let it set and, bingo, you've got a model of a dog's jaw.'

'Right. And that's supposed to prove that Per Holmen was murdered?'

'No.'

'I thought you said-'

'I said that's what I need to prove that it was murder. The missing link in the chain of evidence.'

'I see. And what are the other links?'

'The usual. Motive, murder weapon and opportunity. Turn right here.'

'I don't know. You said your suspicions were based on Holmen using wire cutters to break into the container terminal?'

'I said that was what made me wonder. To be precise, I wondered how a heroin addict so out of his skull that he has to look for refuge in a container would be alert enough to make sure he had wire cutters to get through the gate. Then I had a closer look at the case. You can park here.'

'What I don't understand is how you can claim that you know who the guilty party is.'

'Work it out, Halvorsen. It's not difficult, and you have all the facts.'